In the Chill of the Night
by WatchThisShit
Summary: John rescues a young woman from freezing outside and brings her back to 221B. But why was she out there in the first place? Possibly romance, possibly not, not sure yet! Rated M for disturbing abuse and future stuff If you read it, please review it! It helps a lot!
1. Chapter 1

Girls POV

The London air was crisp and made the lungs of the public tight. People bustled, hurried and rushed back and forth; while others just let it all flow around them. Traffic blurred and screeched, while cabbies bobbed back and forth, weaving in and out. The night was just beginning to waltz into the sky and the day's newspapers flittered across the sidewalks with headlines shouting the news and politics of the moment. And in the scene of it all, no one noticed the girl stumbling up the sidewalk, eyes wide and panicked, breathing ragged.

She had tried to talk to a few people, but they shrugged her off as just another one of the homeless, begging and desperate. They saw nothing past the grimy, torn clothes and bare feet. She asked them all the same questions. _Where am I? _She finally managed to stumble down a cold street –Baker, she thinks the sign said. It was a biting, bone chillingly cold night. The frost was gathering on the lamp posts, and the lights were beginning to flicker on. _I can't give up… not after everything…_ But against her own will, she collapsed against the hard, unforgiving pavement, and rolled to the side, just out of the less than busy foot traffic.

Johns POV

The night was starting to settle in, and I had just put the kettle on when I noticed Sherlock staring out through the window. After pulling out two cups, I went over next to him, trying to see what he was staring at. I knew it would be basically impossible to pull him out of his concentration, but I might as well try.

"What're you looking at?" I asked him, glancing up at the taller man. He didn't respond, or move. Whatever it was had his full and undivided attention. I looked down at the street as well. People were all headed home on the cold early November night. A few cars and cabs hummed down the street as the street lamps came on. The sidewalks were beginning to clear, and I noticed, just across the street, there seemed to be something in the hedges. Squinting my eyes, I tried to focus on the object.

"Jesus, it's a person!" I gasped as I saw the bare feet and long arms. Without another moment, I quickly grabbed my coat and pulled it on as I threw myself down the stairs and out the door. Dodging the cars, I made it across the street in seconds. Bending down on the cold earth, I rolled the cold figure face up. The frost bitten face of a young woman was now turned towards me. Her eyes were shut and her lips were lightly parted. Her clothes were rags, with no shoes and a need for a shower. But she was still breath taking. She was my height, with what was supposed to be a more solid build. But from what I could see now, she looked malnourished and most likely sick. Slipping my arms underneath her knees and around her shoulders, I heaved her up. She should've been much heavier than this. As I carried her across the street, I saw Sherlock open the door and let me pass.

"Thanks," I said, as I stepped through the doorway. But just as I got through the door to the flat, she opened her eyes slightly. At first, she only looked sleepy, confused almost. But when she came to a bit, her eyes flashed open and she shoved herself out of my arms and fell to the floor. She quickly ran to the door, but was stopped by Sherlock, who blocked the exit with his body. She threw herself against a wall and shrunk into herself, pulling back as far as she could. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, the sounds of her ragged breathing and frightened noises were like that of an abused animal. Her eyes were wide and panicked, jumping from Sherlock to myself every few seconds. She wasn't standing offensively, but as if she was ready to drop down and wrap herself up to protect from an attack. I held up my hands quickly in surrender.

"Hey, hey, it's okay. We aren't going to hurt you!" I told her, trying to keep my voice steady. Her head snapped my direction when I spoke. Her eyes were looking me over frantically. She just shook her head and pressed further against the wall. I took a step towards her and she let out a whimpered moan, and I could hear her whispering, pleading.

"_no no no…. please god no…"_

I stopped dead in my tracks, not wanting to frighten her further. The next voice I heard was Sherlock's.

"You've been abused," He stated plainly, "Mentally, emotionally… _physically_." When he said this, she narrowed her eyes at him, a frightened look flitting across her face. "The way you're standing, you aren't trying to defend yourself; you're trying to protect yourself. You'd rather take the beating you would've gotten, instead of the one you would get for fighting back. The clothing, and physical health suggest poor living conditions; possibly a sex slave, a kidnapping victim? Yes, I think so; you've been trapped for a long time. But you've escaped now, only to fall in the hands of yet another pair of kidnappers?" He finished, looking at her, he had taken a few steps towards her, and was now closer to her than I was. She was staring at him, breath still ragged, and eyes still wide. It was minutes before she spoke.

"Please… Don't send me back to him…" She asked, quietly and staring him in the eyes.

Sherlock's POV

"Please… Don't send me back to him…" She pleaded quietly, her eyes boring into my own. She was physically malnourished, but from the development of her facial structure and her bust to waist to hips ratio, I had to guess she was in her early twenties. And I could tell she was watching me as I was watching her. And not to mention John was watching the both of us. She hadn't responded well to John, so her imprisoner had to have had similar features or traits.

"John," I said, my eyes never wavering from hers, a combination of brown and green. "Show her where the shower is, and find her some clothes." And with that, I turned and went into the kitchen. I needed to figure her out.

John's POV

When Sherlock turned and left, I was still standing there. The woman was still backed against a wall, but her breathing was evening out, and she wasn't near tears anymore. We both looked at each other, her with uncertainty and fear, and I with caution and helpfulness. I kept my hands up,

"I promise we won't let you go back there," I told her, offering a smile. "We want to help you." She stared at me for a few moments, just looking at me. Finally, she swallowed and lowered her hands,

"My names… Asha" She said, offering a very weak smile. I returned it with one of my own. Stepping forward, I pointed down the hall way.

"I'm John, the bathrooms down here, I can show you if you'd like." She nodded a bit, murmuring a thank you.

After escorting her down the hall, giving her a towel and some of Sherlock's old clothes, I left her to the shower. Walking back to the kitchen, I realised I had left the kettle on! Quickly pulling it off, I sent an annoyed glance at Sherlock, who was sitting at the table with his hands pressed together. After pouring myself a cup, I poured one for the stock still detective next to me.

"Figure her out yet?" I asked him, sipping my tea. He stayed quiet, just staring at the wall and not saying a word. It was a good fourty-five minutes until we saw Asha again. She was in the clothing I had given her, which made me smile when I saw the look of shock and possibly annoyance on Sherlock's face. She had rolled up the pant legs of one of the few pairs of his pajama bottoms, paired with an old grey button up of his. She stood in the entrance way, shoulders held back; hands behind her, but her feet were close together and pointed forward. There was an empty chair in front of her, but she ignored it. A silence befell us all, until I spoke.

"Would you like to sit?" I asked her, motioning to the seat. She slowly slid into the seat, watching us both very closely.

"Tea?" Sherlock asked her, placing the cup I had laid in front of the woman.

"No," She said immediately, "Thank you, sorry. I'm just not very thirsty."

"Hmm, yes, it's either that, or you completely don't trust us and tried, to no avail obviously, to escape through the window; which is what I'm guessing the scrape on your forearm is from." He stated, eyes trained on hers. She let out a breath and gave him a small smile.

"What would you like to know?" She asked, looking right back at him. Her voice wasn't very strong, but it was definite.

"It's not what I want to know that's bothering me; it's what I already do." Sherlock's statement surprised me. Nothing rustled him. He was never truly surprised, or shocked. He had already figured it out, and it was one of the possibilities that he hadn't really thought would happen. She motioned for him to continue. Taking a breath, he began. "Let's start with your physical appearance. You're bruises are fresh on your hands and feet, probably from all the running and escaping you've been doing. The injuries on your heels and toes- along with the severity of your frostbite- suggest about 37 hours of on foot travel. By the way John, you'll probably want to treat her, because I doubt she wants to go to a hospital." He interjected quickly, as though I wasn't already paying attention. Her eyes weren't wide in fear, or amazement. She just watched him, almost bored. But a small smile played at her lips. He continued,

"The bruises that I could see on your shoulders, arms and thighs suggest bonds. Either to keep you immobilized or locked up, most likely in the dark for an extended period of time judging from how your eyes were adjusting to the lights. You've been under fed, probably for a year now, judging from the way your bones are visible and the lack of muscle tone that you are obviously used to carrying. How can I possibly tell that? Simple, your walking gait. Your strides are strong, but you don't have the muscles to power it anymore. You lost your strength first when you were abducted from your home. Your home, you are so far from home." He stared at her, his eyes searching over her emotionless face. Her smile had dropped and now she just looked back at him, her eyes blank and heavy looking. "You're from America, the northwest to be precise. Your accent isn't distinctly eastern Washington, but leaning more heavily towards western. You grew up there, near Seattle."

"The Emerald city," I head her whisper, as she was lost in a flood of memories. Tears brimmed on her eyes, but that's as far as they got. They didn't fall, instead they just quivered on the edge, until eventually they just moistened her eyes and receded. She looked back at Sherlock, her eyes finally focusing on the detective. "You're mostly right." She said, a sad small smile playing at her lips as she stood up. "I did grow up in the Northwest, I lived the beginning of my life in western Washington, but I moved over the pass with my family when my grandparents became ill. And it's been three years, not one." And with that, she lie down on the couch, and curled the blanket around herself.


	2. Chapter 2

John's POV

After she shamelessly corrected Sherlock, she turned on her heel and went to the couch to face away from us and curl up. It seemed that she was done with us for the evening. And I couldn't blame her, if Sherlock was right, she had been running for days now, and no doubt she had had very little sleep. Picking up Sherlock's own untouched cup and my own empty one, I returned them to the kitchen. He was still sitting at the table, staring at the wrapped up figure on the couch. She had fallen asleep, her small frame softly expanding and shrinking with her breaths. Shaking my head, I walked over and attempted to uncurl her but just before I could touch her I heard Sherlock's voice come from behind me.

"Don't," I turned to face him, "She would just tense up if you touched her, it's better to let her alone." I sighed, of course he was right. He was always right, unless it was about the solar system. Smirking at the thought, I remarked that I was going back to bed and turned in for the night myself, heading up the staircase.

Sherlock's POV

I lost track of the time as I sat in the kitchen, searching through my mind palace. No singularly significant drug lords or kidnappers were on the radar; so this one had to be well hidden, able to keep low and a normal life outside of his deranged one. He had a god complex, a power craze, a need to be dominant in every way. Mother problems, separation anxiety, a whole list of psychological problems. Movement came from the couch, pulling me out of my concentration. Asha had stretched out on the couch, and was now facing the ceiling. Whimpers escaped her lips; her eyes squeezed shut as she tried to hold back tears she didn't even know she was crying. Nightmares were racking her mind as she convulsed on the couch.

I watched as she fought through it. She has been trapped for three years, but even after that she was able to pick herself up and somehow escape. He was obviously willing to come after her, meaning that he didn't have anybody else in his possession, most likely he kept one until he killed them or they just died from the circumstances. That's why she was so wary and cautious of John and I. John frightened her, so his physical traits had to be memory triggers. Memories of pain and fear. He would get to those tomorrow, he would figure her out completely tomorrow.

I'm sorry for such the short update! You will get another one later today or tomorrow morning! Please comment, I don't know if I will continue this story or not, and I and feedback, to know if you'd like me to continue!

Thanks! Love to all of you!


	3. Chapter 3

John's POV

I came down the stairs to find the couch empty. In fact, the entire living room was vacant. A confused expression came over my face as I walked through and towards the kitchen. They sat facing each other on opposite ends of the table, Sherlock's hands were folded with his eyes never wavering from the young woman's in front of him. She stared back at him, a blank expression never leaving her face. Looking between the two, I decided against asking what they were doing or why they were doing it.

"Breakfast?" I asked the two of them as I went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Neither of them replied, a usual habit of Sherlock's. But, I made an executive decision for Asha, she needed to eat. It was painfully obvious that she hadn't had a decent meal in weeks, maybe even months. Frying some eggs, I kept a strained ear to the kitchen. Neither of them had spoken when I entered the room, and they continued their silence as I made breakfast. After the eggs were done, along with the toast and tea I had prepared, I carefully balanced it as I brought it out to the two statues. I placed Sherlock's tea in front of him first, not even earning a glance. But as soon as I set Asha's food in front of her, her neck snapped up at a speed at which it should have broken. The first emotion I caught on her face was shock-almost fear. She stared at me, her hazel eyes staring into my own as if asking if I had poisoned it. I sat down next to her, taking her attention away from the still staring detective across from her.

"You need to eat," I suggested to her, to which she quickly replied that she wasn't hungry. "How in God's name are you not hungry? You look like you're starving!" I had unintentionally raised my voice at the end and I watched as she shrunk back quickly, her shaking hand flashed out from underneath the table snatching up the fork. It trembled in her hands as she picked up a small piece of egg and put it in her mouth. It looked as though it pained her to chew and swallow the small mouthful. She looked back up at me as if to ask if I wanted her to do it again. I sighed and rubbed my forehead. "Sorry, I wasn't trying to force you… you just, you need to get your strength up. Sever malnourishment can permanently damage your stomach and other parts of your body." It was quiet as she took another small mouthful.

"Thank you," She said quietly, taking a sip of her tea. Sherlock hadn't said a word as she ate for a few moments, but the silence couldn't last forever.

"What about John sets you off?" He asked her blankly, nearly making her sputter and nearly choke on the food she had just swallowed. I quickly checked to make sure she was okay and shot a look at Sherlock. He ignored it and continued to stare at her, expecting an answer. I saw her eyes dart to me, and she looked pained.

"John is much… kinder than he was…"

"It's not his demeanor, it's his physical appearance. Your capturer, he was near your height, taller and more muscular; with an authoritative command and near his middle ages. He was forceful and manipulative, drugging you different times with different foods so you didn't trust anything. That's why you don't want to accept food, especially from John but did so when he commanded you too" Sherlock stared at her; the fork was hanging off of her fingers, the food forgotten. "And obviously he has threatened you that he knows people, will know how to find you and get you back if you ever escape." Now I watched her, I watched the emotions flood her face as Sherlock brought up the memories and thoughts. "But you still left, you managed to escape somehow. But he's probably still got your passport, any and all of your papers. You can't go home, you'd have to go back to him."

"I would rather die, than ever go back to him." She spat suddenly, anger flaring in her eyes as she stood up with such a jolt she jostled the table. "What do you want me to say to you?! You, who have stared at me all the morning and done nothing but watch! You watched me breath, watched me blink, no doubt you could read every little emotion that dared flicker through my timid and racing mind. Tell me this, Sherlock, if you know me so well, if you are as brilliant as you say and as you think than why haven't you figured it out?" She was glaring at him now. Sherlock looked angry, and I was surprised by Asha's outburst. It was as though she got all of her confidence back in one instant. It was a glimpse into a life we knew absolutely nothing about. As soon as it happened though, it was gone. She looked tired, and lost almost. "Why haven't you figured it out?" It was deafeningly quiet, the silence thick around us. She sighed, "Well, when you do, let me know; because I haven't figured it out either." With that, she abandoned her food and left the table. I looked at Sherlock when she left.

"What did she mean? Figure what out?" I asked him, as he got out and moved swiftly to the living room to pick up his violin. My question went unanswered, so I cleaned up the breakfast mess and tidied up the small table I as much as I could. When I returned to the living room, I flipped through the newspaper for any possible cases. But it was slow; nothing seemed to interest Sherlock at the moment, so they were out of a job as it were. Coughing came from upstairs, hacking and hard against the throat. Sherlock's voice interrupted my concentration.

"Why her?" I heard him remark before he went back to playing. My heart tightened when I realized that was her question to him. That's what she had meant when she asked him to tell her when he figured it out, because she didn't know either. Why her? And from upstairs in the bathroom, I could hear the soft sounds of muffled sobbing as she threw up what little food she had in her weak stomach.

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**And a question or two, **

**What do you think is the reason she was kidnapped?**

**And who do you think she will fall in love with?**


	4. Chapter 4

John's POV

The days passed quietly, Sherlock played his violin, probably making a profile of Asha's capturer. While Asha slept most of the day on the couch. Occasionally, she would twist and turn, moaning a bit. But each time I went up to try to help her, Sherlock shot me down, dismissing the events and saying that she needed to get through it herself. When she woke, she would eat a bit of food, stretch and go back to sleep. Except for her out bursts and the thank you's she gave me, she remained quiet.

By the fourth day, I decided it was about time to properly look at her wounds again. I had checked them the first day, quickly mending them and preventing any further damage. But up keep was mandatory, just to ward off infection and to keep an eye on them. When she woke up, and she had finished eating what was a normal person's lunch, I sat her back down on the couch but I didn't let her lay down.

"You need to let me look at your wounds. I'm sure I don't know the extent of them, but if you want to stay out of the hospital, we are going to have to check a couple of things." I spoke calmly, keeping my voice steady and trying to sound soothing. She studied me with cautious eyes, her face closely guarded from any and all emotions.

"What kinds of things?" She asked me finally, giving me a small smile. This eased my tension for a moment and I smiled back, trying to encourage her to be open with me. She needed to trust me, we had to be comfortable, or this would be ever so much harder.

"Well first, we need to check the frostbite and make sure it's healing well. We also need to check for any other abrasions and keep a record of them, as well as do a couple of blood tests." She froze when I mentioned the last part, but only for a second. We spoke for a few minutes, discussing when and where this would all be happening, and we decided that it would be best to do the lab tests at Bart's, while checking everything else would be best done at Baker Street. I shot a text to Molly, informing her that we would be in later today to use the lab. She didn't need to know about Asha, not yet.

"How would you check for any other abrasions?" She asked me, confusion etched in her voice. I gave a simple shrug, now pre-occupied with trying to set up a medical file for her with what I had around me. I got up to pick up a few papers off of my desk.

"You'd have to take off your shirt and pants and we would record what we saw." I didn't realize how quiet it was until after I said those words. Sherlock had stopped playing and was watching the two of us intently. But as Asha stared at the wall, battling her own inner thoughts and demons, I saw Sherlock glance toward her, with what almost seemed like—was it concern? But as soon as it was there, the emotion was gone.

"Oh, Jesus, I'm sorry…. Um…" I tried to think of another way we could do this. We could try to call Molly over and explain Asha's situation then instead of at the lab. It was painfully obvious that she wouldn't be comfortable with me doing it. Sherlock's voice broke the silence.

"I will record her injuries." He said simply, setting down his violin and adjusting his button up. We both quickly looked at him. When she didn't move, he sighed exasperatedly and motioned to his bedroom. "You are obviously uncomfortable with john seeing you in such a state, so the logical choice would be for me to do the examination and tell him what I observed. Now, if you would please, follow me to my room." We were both silent, but after a few moments, Asha stood and walked softly towards his bedroom, following the consulting detective.

Sherlock's POV

I flipped the lights on as I stepped through the door to my bedroom, Asha's soft footsteps treaded behind me. Her gait was the same as when she had first walked through our flat; a strong stance, but still no power to it. After she was standing in the middle of the room, I shut the door. She was silent, her breathing barely audible as I quietly made my way back to her. She stood stock still, her eyes never leaving the wall in front of her, she was detaching herself from the situation. Fear? Apprehension? Did he do this to her; make her strip for him before he abused her into submission? He would soon find out, but there was a slight disturbance in his mind. A small feeling, that maybe he didn't want to know what happened to her because it almost felt like it would anger him. He quickly pushed it away, to the farthest reaches of his mind. He couldn't afford to care, emotional connections just resulted in illogical behavior and pain.

She was still in the clothes of mine that John had given her, a button up shirt and old pair of pajama pants. Clearing my throat, I spoke as softly as I could.

"Please remove your shirt." I asked her, pulling out the papers John had given me to mark abrasions and other disfigurements and identifying marks. Her fingers shook as she began to unbutton the shirt, making it hard for her to do it efficiently. I sighed, "Just pull it over your head." I told her, as she looked almost shocked. Nodding, she crossed her arms in front of her and lifted the shirt over and off. Her shoulders weren't broad, but they weren't small. The blades were easily visible from the surface, as was her spine and ribs. Her waist was small, with hips that matched the width of her shoulders. Her hip bones were peaking threw just above my pants. Her bra was much too large for her, further proving how much weight she had lost; he guessed nearly 80 pounds. He started with her back. There were purple and green marks all around her waist, along with multiple raised scars following the pattern bruising. A restraint, marks from a leather belt that had been wrapped around her waist and held her to what? A wall, a bed, a post? Wherever and whatever had kept her there cut into her, causing the scaring that would stick her with forever. Travelling upward, there was slight bruising on both sides of her rib cage, caused by what looked like a whip. Around her neck were marks similar to those on her hips, hidden nicely by her long bleached hair. The scars were smaller, as wide as my smallest finger instead of the width of my thumb. When I lifted her hair off of her neck I felt her shiver, she whimpered when I touched one of them that trailed down over her collar bone.

"I won't hurt you, I promise."

The words left my lips before I could catch them. Her eyes caught mine again, brown red trained on my own blue green. For a few moments, we stared at each other; she was seeing if I meant what I had said, I was seeing if I did as well. I wasn't to most comforting of persons, that was John's strong suit. She gave a silent nod,

"Thank you," She said quietly as I continued to study her. There was bruising on her hips, formed in the shape of pudgy fingers, new bruises on top of old ones. After I had finished observing and recording the markings, I stepped back.

"You can put your shirt back on," I told her, grabbing another sheet of paper. "But I need you to take off the pants." Nodding mutely, she replaced her shirt and slowly removed her pants. When she had done so, she wouldn't meet my gaze. She looked at the completely opposite wall, refusing to look where I did. The tops of her thighs were covered in splotchy purple bruises, while the insides of her thighs were completely green and blue. Not an inch of skin near her pelvis was unblemished; the area where her underwear just stopped was blue and purple. The rest of her legs were relatively unharmed. The frost bite was healed and the skin was tender on her feet and hands. When she pulled up her pants, she still wouldn't look at me. But I saw the trail of tears that led down her cheeks. I turned to leave her to herself, opening the door and nearly out before I turned back, looking at her shaking figure,

"It's not your fault, you didn't deserve this." I told her quietly, before closing the door and joining John in the living room to discuss the blood work.


	5. Chapter 5

John's POV

Sherlock returned to the living room after about fourty-five minutes. He didn't say anything as he sat down in his chair, the file held tightly in his hand. After passing it to me, he folded his hands and began to think out loud as I looked through his observations.

"Her kidnapper prefers young women in their twenties, with blonde hair and a slim build. He despises strength that could match his and any form of opposition. He most likely had an abusive mother, who only showed affection after she beat him. A bondage fetish, we are looking for somebody who loves the BDSM life style of Master and servant."

As he continued, I took a hard look at the renderings; the scars, bruises, where the frost bite had been. Sherlock had even taken the time to mark where birthmarks were, he was remarkably thorough. I had understood why she had been skittish around me to begin with, after Sherlock had explained it. But now, if I somehow resembled the kidnapper, I wondered how she could even be around me. She had been kept as a sex slave for three years, tortured by this sick bastard. People were sick; not all of them, but some of them were just terrible. A text brought me out of my wallowing thoughts. It was Molly, confirming that the lab was open and that she was there today, willing to do anything they needed. She was so nice, always-albeit begrudgingly sometimes- willing to drop what she was doing to help the two of them. Of course I knew she fancied Sherlock, but it was more than obvious that wasn't going to take off anytime soon. Sherlock trusted her, but did not find her attractive or appealing. However, he did seem to be handling Asha very well.

"If she's lost as much weight as you are saying, she's going to need to at least have some new clothes before we take her to Bart's." I remarked, finally putting down the folder and looking at Sherlock who was silently deep in thought. Without a response, he swept up, quickly pulling on his jacket and fleeing out the door without so much as a word. I jumped up and called after him, "Where are you going!?" He stopped and looked back, yelling,

"Shopping!" and he was gone.

I made tea for Asha and I, placing it on the table between the two chairs in the living room. She looked small huddled up in Sherlock's chair, the cup cradled in her frail hands. It was silent between us for a few moments, until she spoke.

"I don't hate you," Her voice was hardly a whisper, but when it was so often heard, you could pick it out of the air.

"I know," I replied, letting her do the talking.

"I don't mean to act like the way I did towards you. I know you aren't him; I've got no preconceived notions that 'all men are the same.' It's just, sometimes it's hard for me to believe that I really got out of there, and I see you and… I just get scared." She cut herself off, taking a drink of her tea. The silence resumed, but it wasn't awkward of forced, just quiet. She was keeping food down better now, so she was eating on a semi-regular basis. I set my cup down and looked at her.

"We won't let him find you again." I promised her, watching her as her head snapped up and she looked at me. She hadn't gained any weight, but there was a small light that flickered in her eyes sometimes. And now, it shone just a little bit brighter. She didn't speak, but she nodded and smiled, taking another sip of tea. The door slammed, making the two of us jump as footsteps could be heard coming up the stairs. Sherlock had been gone for nearly 2 hours, without so much as a text. But that was how he was. He was ladled with shopping bags, to which he hauled to the couch and flopped them down. We stood up to see just what he could have gotten now. He stepped back and waived his arm over them; they were bags of women's clothing. Practically everything any one would need. Shoes, shirts, pants, even underwear. Her eyes were wide as she searched through the clothing. Looking back at the –was he grinning?!—detective, she stuttered and tripped over her words, trying to switch between oh my god, how and thank you. Sherlock stopped her with a hand on her shoulder,

"Go change," He said, handing her a large plastic bag. She nodded and almost ran off to the bathroom. I looked through the clothes in the rest of the bags. They were tastefully picked, not to plain or form fitting. The thought of Sherlock shopping for women's underwear brought almost a laugh to my face. Sherlock caught my smirk and furrowed his brow.

"I am capable of picking out tasteful underwear for the opposite sex, does this surprise you?"

"Yep"

Asha's POV

I carefully set Sherlock's clothes on the top of the toilet, neatly folded and tucked away. I had discarded my old underwear, throwing them away without another look, and quickly fished through plastic bag. I found a simple pair of black panties and a matching bra, fitting my new size perfectly. The pants were a dark wash fit and flare, sitting on my hips perfectly. There was a purple crew neck t-shirt folded on top of a knee length wool coat. But before I pulled on the coat, a pair of scissors and an electric razor fell out. I stared at it, how could he have possibly known? A hand came up to touch the bleached tendrils that fell down past my collar bone. It was so far from my natural colour, it was sickening. Taking my shirt off, I pulled my hair away from my head and snipped as close to my scalp as I could. Soon after, I was surrounded by a halo of pirate gold. The humming of the blades almost made me cry with joy when I plugged the razor in.

Slipping on my new Navy blue pea coat, I tied my convers and stepped out of the bathroom, making my way back to the living room.

Sherlock's POV

Asha returned 37 minutes after she had left, dressed in her new clothes. When I met her eyes, I gave her a small approving smile. Her head was shaved, a soft dark brown fuzz covering where the tangled mess of blonde had been. Her eyes were wet from crying, but were they tears of relief? Happiness? But they were also brighter than he had ever seen them. She looked bright, almost fierce, and confident. Still shy and a little reserved, but it was almost like she got a piece of her old self back.

"Thank you." She said, standing closely to me. I nodded my head and motioned to the door.

"I believe that we were on our way to Bart's?"

The cab ride was quiet, with Asha between John and I on the ride there. Her small hand was pressed tight against her thigh, but not tight enough to where her fingers didn't graze my thigh a couple of times. However subconscious, the action was strangely comforting. We arrived quickly, and made our way to the lab without any hesitations or hold ups. The lab was empty, thank god, so I got to work quickly. Pulling out needles and slides, I began to focus on purely the science. This was turning into an experiment, something I was far more comfortable with.

I set up slides to test for different drugs and chemicals. I would need to take just a few vials, nothing too much. But when I stepped up to Asha with the needle in my hand, she jerked back from me, tripping over the stool and landing on the cold floor. Fear flooding from her eyes to the rest of her being. She was shaking, a hand up to block her face as she stared back up at me. I looked at her, stopping in my tracks and holding out my hand.

"I just need to take some blood; I have to make sure you're okay." I spoke calmly, but sternly. She needed to let me do this; I had to see if any traces of the drugs were left in her veins. I grabbed her hand and sat her down next to me. John slid her coat off as I pulled her hand into my lap. She stared at me as I handled the needle, barely wincing as it pierced her skin and began to draw blood.

**Hello everyone! Thank you for sticking with Asha this far, I promise you, it's about to get real interesting! Keep reviewing, It's what keeps me writing! A huge Thank you to Jhessika for keeping me motivated to keep writing! This wouldn't be happening probably without your support! Haha Until next time!**


	6. Chapter 6

**I forgot to mention! This is about a good year and a half after the jump!**

John's POV

Asha's response to the needle was so sudden, I hadn't had time to catch her as she fell to the floor. There was fear written evidently across her face as Sherlock approached her with the needle. It became very clear how accustomed she was to getting injections after Sherlock started to draw blood. She hardly even winced as the needle pierced her skin. But if she had been, and she had escaped a week ago, symptoms of withdrawal should be starting any time, and that wasn't something I was looking forward to dealing with. As Sherlock took her blood samples, I quickly tried to remember different withdrawal and addiction symptoms I had learned about while working on cases. She had been trying to sleep a lot, so that might be hiding a few of them. But she still has a decreased appetite, nightmares, and her mood was still low. Not that I expected her to be happy; but when she wasn't sleeping, she was agitated or paranoid. All those things pointed to addictions to either Heroin or Cocaine, or possibly even both. In any case, her symptoms were small at the moment, but that just means that they could become larger any day now and they would have to watch her. No point telling Sherlock, though, I thought to myself, he's probably already gotten that figured out.

The syringe was pulled out and I could hear Asha relax, a heavy sigh escaping her lips. At that time Molly walked in. She was quiet as usual, small and quick as she moved around the lab. Her brown hair was up in a ponytail and she looked like her day had been going well. She gave me a small smile and had looked up to give Sherlock one when she saw Asha. The two were staring at each other now. Molly was small and petit, with ashy brown hair and a nervous demeanor. Compared to Asha, whose hair now resembled peach fuzz of a dark colour, she seemed almost like a child; even though it was blatantly obvious that molly was older than her. Asha just had an aura around her that commanded attention, immediately making her seem older and stronger, even though she was the exact opposite. Molly stumbled a bit before speaking.

"Oh, um, hello? Who are you, if I may ask?" She smiled and stuttered as Asha hopped off of the stool and continued to stare at her. Sherlock had already whisked away, busying himself with finding out what toxins were roaming her veins. The tension between the two women was unimaginable. Her reply was quiet and almost inaudible, but firm.

"I'm Asha." It was clear she was done with speaking after that. She wouldn't look at anybody, directing her attention to an interesting speck on the tile. Molly, however, whispered quietly to me.

"Is she a cousin of yours?" I shook my head, trying to busy myself with something but not sure what to do. Sherlock was still testing away. "A-a friend of Sherlock's?" Her voice squeaked a bit at the last part. I didn't know how to reply to that. Sherlock made it clear that he didn't have 'friends', but he did care about people. He cared about them enough to fake his own death and go into hiding for 3 years. When I didn't answer her, she almost looked relieved. It was obvious she fancied him, and even though she would be happy for him, she silently hoped they weren't too close. She enjoys being someone Sherlock trusts; he hid at her home for most of those 3 years as far as I was told. "So she's a case?-"

"She isn't a case." Sherlock's voice made her jump; he was behind her now and had been for a few minutes. He was studying the results he had gotten, his face void of emotion. He wasn't offering any other explanation as he pulled on his coat. Asha took that as her cue and slid on her own, looking remarkably similar to him.

"Thanks Molly," I said to her as I turned to leave and followed the other two out.

Sherlock's POV

I kept moving forward as the cold air whipped at my face as I made my way to hail a cab. Asha kept up on my heels, but she didn't speak and the silence was fine with me. Her withdrawal symptoms were low, she was very good at hiding them. And it looked like she was lucky enough not to have to drugs ravage her body, she hadn't been on them for long periods at a time. Most likely high doses between long intervals. Clenched in my hand were the positive test results for Heroin and Meth.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock's POV

The door opened with a crash, slamming it against the wall as I stormed into the flat. My chest was constricting, my heart and my mind racing all at once. I kept clenching and unclenching my hands, swallowing for no reason. I slammed the door to my room shut with such a force it shook my framed periodic table poster on my wall. I was unrightfully furious. I was mad at the kidnapper for doing this to her; stringing her out, abusing her for years, making her flinch at even the sight of needles or John for that fact. But-strangely- also found that I was mad at her. Mad at her for not escaping and finding me earlier, for somehow trusting this person enough to get into a situation that which he had power over her in the first place. How could she have let that happen?! She wasn't an idiot as far as I could tell, but maybe for once I was wrong. Furious, I flung open my door and marched myself to the living room. John was standing closely to Asha, she had stripped off the waist coat and looked as though she was contemplating taking off her shirt. Her skin was flushed red, and beads of sweat were pouring down her face more than I had seen before.

"How'd he lure you in, huh?" I spat at her, her eyes quickly flashing to mine. There was a spark, but I ignored it. "Did he act like he needed help, hmm? Couldn't carry his groceries, looking for a shop, _lost his dog?_" I knew my tone was mocking and cruel, I didn't stop. "You couldn't see the signs? No gut feeling of _this isn't right?_ Didn't your parents ever tell you not to talk to strangers? Better yet, how could you not have figured out a way out of there? I thought you were smarter than that, but there you go John, I can be wrong-"

"Fuck you!" She spat, standing up, pushing me away from her with such a force that it nearly knocked me back. Her eyes were narrowed to slits, her fists clenched as her chest heaved with anger. "You think I fucking stayed because I wanted to? You don't know the half of it." She whispered dangerously. "I didn't escape until I did, because by then, I didn't care if I died. I had hoped that I would have frozen to death by the time anybody found me, especially him. I escaped because I was already dead inside anyways, so what did it matter if my body died long after my soul did? Do you know what kind of hopelessness it takes to muster that kind of strength so that you can simply die outside of your prison, so that he can't have to pleasure of seeing you die in his own little home?" She stood to her full height and was shoving a finger in my chest as she walked forward. Her walk was powerful, fueled by the same rage and the strength she had had that night. Asha was nearly frightening.

"But do you know what the worst part is?" She asked me, her voice a deadly whisper, a dark humorless chuckle following her words. "I was trapped for so much longer than you think. He had had me for years before all of this. I'd fallen asleep in his bed, lay tight against his chest, felt his lips on mine in the sweetest of touches. He had acted like he truly loved me, like he was normal enough to love somebody in such a way. He was my best friend and the man I thought I loved. I'd known him for years, and had never suspected him. He'd come home drunk every once and a while, get a little aggressive, but I never thought much of it. I could handle him then, I was strong enough to wrestle him off of me and put him to bed. Your right, I've lost a lot of that strength I had before all of this. But he started acting this way when he wasn't drunk. He'd slap me and push me against the wall. He'd act out these sick fucking fantasies, have me shackled to the wall in his fucking basement. And nobody knew, because nobody cared. We moved over to England, and even when we lived in the states I hadn't had many friends. He had made sure of that. My families dead, there was no one to notice my missing.

"So I'm sorry that I wasn't smart enough to leave him alone when I met him 5 years ago, I'm sorry I wasn't smart enough to figure out how to escape sooner. I'm sorry I couldn't be a fucking genius like you. And by the way, my parents have been dead since I was a kid, have a good day."

And with that, she slapped me and ran out the door. The world spun and went quiet as John shouted at her to come back as she took off down the stairs and out onto the street. A deafening ringing in my ears did nothing to distract the pulsing of my brain and the racing of my heart. I didn't know if I meant to get that reaction out of her or not. She had exploded more than she had ever before, mustering up strength to even physically move me. Sure, I now knew how he had gotten to her and kept her there. But there was a disturbing feeling in the pit of my stomach that told me I hadn't wanted to find out like this. Not with her furious at me and leaving. No matter how hard I tried to swallow it down, I couldn't make the feeling completely disappear.

John reappeared in the door way, breathing heavily. He had tried to chase her down, but in her adrenaline, she had been able to easily out run him.

"What the bloody hell was that, Sherlock?!" He asked me, his face scrunched in anger. He was worried about Asha, no doubt, but he was also confused as to why I had burst out like that. Pulling out the results, I threw them at John.

"He had her on Heroin and Meth," I hissed at him, pacing now. We had to find her that was no question. But my head was racing still, refusing to slow down. John looked at the results and shook his head.

"Jesus," He murmured, rubbing his forehead out of exhaustion. There were a million things that I needed to do—catch and deal with Asha's capturer; I'd show him exactly what kind of wrath he had incurred from me. "You have to apologize to her." John said suddenly, as though he was reading the thoughts that were flying through my head. Were they really that visible on my face? I gave him a look and he returned it. "You know I'm right, Sherlock, that was wrong! That was the absolute worst way you could have handled the situation! She trusts you, and now you've gone and hurt her!" His last words stopped me mid pace. I had hurt her. She wasn't just angry with me, she was hurt. The scene from my bedroom flashed through my head.

_ "I won't hurt you, I promise."_

I had promised her, but I didn't realize how much she was already relying on that promise. With a growl, I threw on my coat and quickly made my way out into the street.

Asha's POV

I stumbled through the streets and people. Goose bumps had risen against my arms, alerting me to the freezing winds that were whipping around me. I had left my coat back at 221B, but I didn't care. I had to get out; I needed to get away from the memories and the pain and him. I had slapped him before I ran out, my calloused hand making contact with his wonderfully cold skin. I hadn't meant to, it was just an impulse that I couldn't resist at the moment. He had made me so angry, so upset with myself…

The sweat covering my body was beginning to cool me down as I continued to walk dazedly down the street. I didn't know where I was going, I just followed the people. Snow began to drift down lazily, not having a care in the world if they ended up making someone slip or freeze. Some people gave me looks, while others completely ignored me. The more I walked the more my muscles began to ache and scream at me, causing me to slow to a crawl. My head grew fuzzy and I eventually stumbled down an alley. Slumping against the wall, I tried to slow my racing heart and warm myself up. The sweat had practically turned to ice, making me colder than I had ever wanted to be. Now I really was going to freeze to death.

People pushed through the cold, making their way home or to the shops. Nobody noticed the hairless girl sitting in the shadows of the wall. She wasn't crying or complaining; she was silent and contemplative. She looked cold, and hungry, but other than that she looked relatively normal.

My chest heaved and my heart raced as I stared at the wall in front of me. The withdrawal wasn't as bad as it had been before. I was handling it better this time, I hadn't begged for it in so long and I didn't plan to start that again anytime soon. A sad, small chuckle came to my lips. _Well, at least he knows now. _I thought to myself, shaking my head. When I thought of the detective, my stomach made a flip and my mind got a little screwy. For some strange reason, I felt safe around him. Even now, after he had said those things, after he hurt me when he promised he wouldn't—I still wanted to go to him and talk to him. Because he wouldn't look at me like I was just a victim, like the way john did sometimes. Sherlock knew she was the still the same person she was before he even knew her, and he spoke to her like he wanted to reach that person. And, deep down, I knew that he was just trying to help. He wanted to figure out everything he could to help me, even if he went about it the entirely wrong way. With the thoughts of the detective occupying my mind, I felt myself start to drift off to sleep. I knew that I shouldn't, that I should get up, force myself to stay awake and make it back to Baker Street. But the peacefulness of sleep and the stillness it brought was too inviting, and I let myself be carried off.


End file.
